


we run to be caught

by creampuffs



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Female Solo, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 04:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15598299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creampuffs/pseuds/creampuffs
Summary: By the time you realize how deeply she’s sunk into the pockets of your thoughts, it is too late. Nothing feels safe from her reach, and everyday you feel your body and mind becoming less your own. Thoughts of her slip past the membranes of your cells and the thick of your bones, and you see her face in your minds eye as you pour yourself a cup of water, a glass of wine, as you lift your bag into an overhead bin, as you settle into a still-warm bus seat.





	we run to be caught

By the time you realize how deeply she’s sunk into the pockets of your thoughts, it is too late. Nothing feels safe from her reach, and everyday you feel your body and mind becoming less your own. Thoughts of her slip past the membranes of your cells and the thick of your bones, and you see her face in your minds eye as you pour yourself a cup of water, a glass of wine, as you lift your bag into an overhead bin, as you settle into a still-warm bus seat.

A few nights after you uncover her real name and have an unexpected showdown in your own home, your sleep is unsurprisingly fitful. Niko’s once comforting combination of deep breathing and light snoring starts to stress you out, and so you wind up dragging yourself and your pillow to the living room sofa. There, you use a blanket to bundle into a tight cocoon and try, for the millionth time, to banish the memory of Villanelle’s round eyes, dark and dilated from low hospital lights.

_Oksana.  
_

You hear your mouth roll out the word, and feel the way your lips come together and pull apart. Your tongue meanders through the syllables, and the simple utterance of her name brings forth the contours of her face and the amused crease of her eyes. The memory of her shit-eating grin burns right through you, as does the practiced way she held the cocked gun to the curve of her own unmarred jawline. The panic had been so real and so quick then, an inexplicable and irrational fear that she would take her own life. It hit you faster than logic could, making you forget that she was only playing, that playing was likely all she knew how to do. Her childish bark of laughter had surprised you too, so young and uncomplicated.

You suddenly feel warm. Kicking off the blankets does little to help, so you end up peeling your sweatpants off too.

_Villanelle._

You haven’t thrown out the perfume yet. Part of you wants to argue that it could be used as evidence but you’re not stupid enough to believe that there’s not more to it. Despite the sketchiness of how it came to you, you like the way it smells. You have never been one for perfume but something about this particular scent is enticing, genderless in its evasive blend of crushed flowers and earth. The way it clings to your skin is both present and discreet. And judging by the way Villanelle herself had moved in on you for a deep sniff, you are not the only fan.

You turn over on the sofa, remembering the events of that night and the strange, almost surreal sequence of events. Of all the things to have happened between you and the killer you were chasing, a dinner date had been simply unimaginable. So too was the experience of an impromptu head shower, and the way she straddled your chest, thighs tight around your body, in order to forcibly give it to you. Your legs twitch at the memory, and you are annoyed by the flood of details that seem to rush forward with ease. You feel your pulse quickening in a funny spot by your thigh, and immediately think about her skillful slice of the femoral artery, which to your great frustration, only seems to make you warmer.  

So many of your encounters had been coated in fear and adrenaline, peppered with spiked heart rates and uneven breaths. Should it be so strange then that thinking of her now would make you feel this way? Having given yourself some form of permission, you let your mind sink deeper.

You pull at the strings, and unfurl in the remembered heat of her skin and the warmth of her breath on your neck.

She had felt so close then, with the skittering warmth of her fingers moving over your shoulder blades and the back of your thighs as she zipped down your dress. Then there was the weight of her body as she slammed you against the fridge, and her solid presence as she towered over you, knife above your chest. 

By now, your hands have found their way between your legs, and you are not surprised to find that you are wet. Very wet. 

Between the stress of the chase and the late hours poring over leads and criminal records, you really haven’t had the time or the right mind for sex with Niko. So of course you were wet, there was nothing strange about it. And it would be discourteous to wake up Niko just because you felt like fucking, so with that internally decided, you settle into the sofa and spread your legs. 

A quiet sigh escapes your lips as you begin to touch yourself, relishing briefly, the slickness and heat against your fingers. You stretch back further, feeling your hair brush against your cheek and the sides of your neck. 

_“Wear it down.”_

An unexpected jolt runs through you as you remember the tone of her voice, quiet but firm, delivering the line as a command, not a suggestion. Rapidly, your brain feeds you the motion of her lips as she kissed the tip of her gun, tongue peeking out, the action itself both tender and mad. She was excited, mirthful even, teasing you point blank before she made her escape.

It struck you then as strange that she could carry such childlike enthusiasm for something as cold and relentless as murder. Past the delicate features, you can see now how her shoulders pressed tightly against the fabric of her ribbed white t-shirt, and the brutal efficiency with which she broke through the bathroom door.

She had then sat so casually in your kitchen, as if she belonged there, and the memory of the confident sprawl of her legs and the open spread of her chest stirs something within you, whereas in that moment you felt nothing but hot panic and stress. You feel again the weight of her eyes on you as you undressed, trying to peel off your soaked clothes.

_“You have a very nice body.”_

You exhale shakily, now two fingers deep, and curse softly at how ridiculously good it all feels. 

She had moved fast, grabbing your wrist to wrest the knife from your hands when you thought you had an opening. Even in your moment of panic you had privately marveled at her speed and grace, seeing in that instant, just how easily she could have dispatched you.

  _“It’s worse…when I push it through slowly.”_

Her voice had been soft and low, and the spread of her smile slow and sure. It takes little to imagine that same voice and smile being applied in the bedroom, and you hate yourself for thinking it. What would have happened had Niko not come home? Would she have killed you? Would she have done something else? 

You reimagine the scene of her pushing you against the fridge, but this time, the knife is gone. 

She leans in to the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. The air is still, and you are trying not to show your fear, you are trying not to show anything at all. Your pulse quickens, and you exhale shakily when you feel her lips part against your skin to kiss you beneath your jaw. There is anger and outrage, but there is also heat, and she moves quickly as if she can smell it on you. You move to resist her, but the hands around your wrists are unmoving. Suddenly, you feel the hot press of her tongue and the bite of her teeth, and when she leans in to press her entire body against yours, you start to slacken. Her hands travel swiftly across your body and cup your backside to bring you closer. She feels unbelievably good, and you have chased her for so long without thinking about why that to suddenly have her this close makes you feel nothing short of delirious. You smell her, a mixture of soap, blood and sweat, and feel something unhinge inside of you, a measure of control completely lost.

You are suddenly filled with the compulsive desire to fold yourself into her, to make two into one.

Tugging blindly, you try to touch every part of her that you can reach, and by the time her kisses reach your lips, you are hungry too. There is nothing delicate or tender about the way she touches you, there is nothing sweet about the possessive way your mouths fit together. When she pulls you off the fridge to bend you over the counter, you find your legs parting out of their own accord, and she laughs, that same young and uncomplicated melody.

Her fingers fit into you as if you were made for her, and the cool counter against your cheek does nothing to muffle the sounds you make as she starts to fuck you in earnest. With her leaning so closely over you, you can feel the fabric of her shirt against your skin, and you feel your own shirt being bunched up so she can kiss and bite at your shoulders. Amidst the thrust of her fingers, you feel her other hand making patterns down your thigh, rubbing at the soft, sensitive skin, tracing the network of arteries you now intimately know. The thought of her cutting into you makes you unexpectedly hot, and you move your head, not wanting her to see. She catches you though, and stops you from turning away by carefully holding a fistful of your wet hair. She mutters softly as she smiles, fingers still pumping in and out of you.

_“No, don’t hide. I want to see.”_

You gasp at the sudden feel of metal against your thigh. Somehow she retrieved the knife, and the cold blade greets you along with the sound of another soft chuckle. 

_“You like this don’t you? You’re sicker than I thought, Eve.”_

The speed of her fingers increases, and you feel your orgasm is close. She sucks hard against the nape of your neck, leaving what’s sure to be a dark, colorful bruise. You moan helplessly, clutching at the side of the counter table. The blade moves, a slight kiss against skin, and you feel the dribble of blood on your thigh as she crooks her fingers deep inside of you.

“ _I like it_.”

You come hard then, and immediately snap back to the texture of the worn sofa against your back and your own fingers buried deep inside yourself. Jesus, fuck. 

Suddenly, the sleepiness that had so persistently evaded you before greets you at full force. You are too tired and too weirded out by yourself to want to unpack this new psychological baggage, but you do manage to find enough presence of mind to put your sweatpants back on. You lay back on the sofa, body feeling more relaxed than it had been for days. Without much effort, you find your eyes slowly shutting, and the last thing you see before you drift off is the gaze and satisfied smile of a woman who knows too much and nothing at all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> might be fun to try another chapter from the other side, no?


End file.
